


Art

by Anonymous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel (Supernatural) to the Rescue, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Immobility, Kidnapped Dean Winchester, Non-Consensual Bondage, Scared Dean Winchester, encasement, suffocation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 10:51:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17202122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Dean gets noticed by the wrong person which leads him into a nightmarish experience.Can his family find him in time?





	Art

It’s a spell, it has to be. There’s no other explanation for Dean not being able to move, no matter how much he strains or fights, and he’s even more convinced when the old man comes in and snaps his fingers twice.

Dean’s body moves of its own accord then, muscles flexing, body contorting itself into a pose. With his head held immobile, he can’t look down or even to the side to see the position he’s in, but it feels …. come-on-ish, like he’s in the window of some red light district brothel, a naked lure.

And he can’t speak either, so there’s no threatening or begging, no quizzing this guy to find out what the fuck is going on.

All he can do is listen, and take note of what he sees as the old man moves back and forth across his limited field of vision.

“You need to understand,” he says, as he putters around the room. “I’m very selective. Fussy, my brother used to say, but then he was so much less discerning. It’s easier, in truth, now that I’m here alone.”

The old man giggles, suddenly. “Well, not alone…”. He stops in front of Dean, smiles, and then moves out of sight again.

“You see, Henry didn’t have the skill for this work. Or the patience. I think that was why he wasn’t so careful about his choices. So now it’s just me, yes - it is more work but it’s finer work, do you understand?”

No, Dean thinks. He doesn't understand any of this. He doesn’t understand where he is or why, or how long he’s been here, or what this creepy old dude has in store for him.

He remembers leaving Jack in the department store, while he went back to the Impala to get his wallet: Cas’s birthday gift wasn’t going to pay for itself.

Jack had been kind of sad when he’d found out that Cas didn’t have a birthday, and Dean and Sam had felt kind of shitty when they realised Cas had been family for years now and they’d never actually got him to pick a day they could celebrate with him on.

So they’d planned gifts, and a birthday dinner, and there was a banner Sam had gotten with some balloons, waiting to be put up around the library.

And this man...he had Dean now, had taken him from his family. He felt a tight gut knot of panic form at the thought that whatever this guy had planned, maybe Dean would never see them again.

But he knew that however long he’d been gone, Sam and Cas would be out looking for him. And they’d find him.

The man was back then, pulling up a stool and sitting down just out of Dean’s range of vision. He could hear him, though, and the odd slopping sounds coming his position.

“People like you...there’s a certain something about them. Oh, their beauty, but it’s more than that. Physical beauty itself is quite common actually. But something more, from within, supplements it. And you have that. I saw it, back in that store, and there was really no other option.

“I had to have you, bring you here, and make sure your beauty was preserved.”

Dean groans in his throat, the only sound he can really make. Beauty? What the fuck is this guy on?

Something cold touches Dean’s calf then: he isn’t sure what, but he can feel the man’s fingers working at it, pushing at it, almost like he was molding it.

It’s cold, and it feels heavy, and Dean realises in one heart stopping moment what it is.

It’s clay.

He fights again, trying to willing his body to move even an inch, and he’s making whatever angry, scared protests he can with his voice as locked up as the rest of him.

The old man stands up, so that he can look Dean in the face.

“Please,” he says, and pets Dean’s cheek. “Please don’t upset yourself. You see, there isn’t anything you can do, and this is necessary. Oh, now look.”

He must have left a smear of clay on Dean’s face, because he’s pulling out a cotton hankie and carefully dabbing it clear.

“There, much better. Wouldn’t do to get ahead of myself. Please, do try to keep calm. This part takes a while, but then it will all be over very quickly, indeed.”

++

The old man wasn’t lying. It seems to take hours for him to finish applying the clay to Dean’s body, his touch practiced and delicate; the worse is when he carefully molds it around Dean’s genitals, and Dean screams at him, though it comes out as weak and thin through his closed jaw.

He takes a break at Dean’s hips, leaving him alone for a bit, and Dean wishes he had something to drink. His lips feel chapped, and his throat aches, but he puts all his energy into praying to their angel.

There isn’t much he can tell Cas. Just like in that CIA prison, he doesn’t know where he is He can’t give the angel much in the way of clues either: whatever had happened at the car had been shockingly fast, and then Dean had woken up here, magically frozen in place.

If Cas had his wings, then he could just have followed Dean’s prayers like a beacon. But he didn’t, and so Dean would have to hope that he and Sam were using the more traditional methods of tracking him down.

And that they hurried.

The old man comes back in, rubbing his hands briskly. “Arthritis,” he says, as if Dean had asked. “It slows me down, somewhat, these days, but we should still be finished before dark.”

With no window in his line of sight, or even a clock, Dean has no idea how long that gives him. 

He protests, wordlessly, again, as the old man picks up another handful of clay, and then proceeds to carefully sculpt it along Dean’s hips, over his abdomen and then up towards his diaphragm.

He rolls his stool around to the back, and Dean continues to chart his progress by touch; fingers working skilfully to encase him, applying thin well worked layers and then moving up.

The old man continues until Dean’s arms, back and shoulders are completely covered, and then comes back around to the front.

“This part might be uncomfortable,” he says.

He isn’t wrong.

By the time the old man has reached Dean’s nipples, the clay feels like a leather belt buckled tight around his chest. Each breath feels like a weight exercise and he pulls in as much air as he can and forces it deep into his lungs.

He’s light headed by the time he notices the guy’s now encased his neck, and packed more clay across his hair, ears, and forehead.

He’s replaced the stool with a small step so he can reach Dean’s head, and he drags it awkwardly around to the front. Then he moves away again, and Dean can only vaguely hear him moving around.

Then he comes back, and he balances uneasily on the step.

“My hands...they don’t allow me to do this part myself now,” he says. Again, he sounds almost apologetic. “So I put the clay in place, and I have magic to do the rest with. And this, I’m afraid, my beautiful thing, is where we must say goodbye. Don’t fight it. It will be quicker if you don’t.”

Dean doesn’t have the breath to scream as the old man lifts a rolled out layer of clay, and slowly stretches it out across his face.

++

Someone’s touching his face.

Dean registers that first, and then a moment later his mind brings back to him the horrifying awareness that he’s suffocating, his face is covered and he’s never going to breathe again.

His hands fly up to claw the clay away if he can, but he won’t be able to because he can’t move, and this is how he dies.

But somebody is touching his face, and those hands catch his before he can do himself any damage, and a familiar voice reaches out through his fear and his panic.

“Dean. Dean, it’s alright. You’re safe, you can breathe. Dean, trust me.”

He opens his eyes, but he doesn’t dare try to inhale yet, because what if he can’t?

But Cas is looking down at him, holding him, and he looks shaken and desperate and kind of homicidal.

Cas is there.

Dean takes that breath and holy fucking shit it’s like he’s never known air before, the way it bursts through him, burning like fire but the pain is so good and he’s crying with the relief of it.

He isn’t ashamed to cling to Cas, now that he can move. He can feel the tightness that says some of the clay is still on his skin, and he stares at the dead body of the old man lying a few feet away, as Cas tells him he will help Dean get the rest of the clay off but that Cas’s first priority was to make sure he could breathe.

Dean can’t imagine what it must have looked like, Cas coming in and finding him totally encased and smothering. He knows what it felt like, and then he’s shaking and Cas holds him a little tighter.

He takes off his coat, and wraps Dean in it, and helps him stand. Dean doesn’t object. He doesn’t object when Cas keeps one arm around his waist, and holds on to Dean as he guides him downstairs, through the house Dean doesn’t remember, and then out to Cas’s truck. He doesn’t object as Cas helps him sit in the back seat, and then grabs some spare clothes from the duffle bag in the footwell, and helps Dean get into them.

He certainly doesn’t object as Cas does all of this with his cell phone tucked into his ear, calling Sam to tell him he’s found Dean, that’s he’s alright, and then passing the phone over for Dean to tell Sam the same thing while Cas finishes getting him dressed again.

And Cas doesn’t object to Dean sitting closer to him than usual on the ride back home. Dean guesses both of them need it.


End file.
